


Wrapped in Silver and Gold

by lady__sansa_stark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Around TWOW, F/M, Fingering, Inspired by the lovely folk of tumblr, Some lovely/creepy father/daughter relationship, Spanking, canon-verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-26 15:36:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9908978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady__sansa_stark/pseuds/lady__sansa_stark
Summary: One by one, Petyr wriggled the rings from his fingers. He started with his right hand, from pinky to index, setting each ring carefully on the desk behind Sansa. There was a chance the rings would clatter to the floor or roll beneath furniture long before thelessonwas over. No matter – there was plenty of jewelry in Westeros to replace whatever was lost tonight.“Alayne,” he said after the final ring was removed, tapping his naked fingers against her wrists. “Lift your skirts and bend over my knee.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this post on tumblr lol: http://kingpetyr.tumblr.com/post/157603918008/  
> [I had this idea stuck in my head all day during work (it was madness not being able to write, let me tell you). But here it is! (Also forewarning: I didn’t have the time to edit this, so hopefully it’s coherent lol).   
> Enjoy! ;) ]

           The Lord Protector’s room (and singular _room_ , Petyr didn’t fail to take note of that when he arrived) at the Gates of the Moon paled in comparison to what he was accustomed to up in the castle of the Eyrie. The lofty suite of rooms, the seemingly endless walk it took to get from one end of the solar all the way to the opposing window in the bedchamber. Admittedly, he wasn’t fond of the seeping _cold_ that persisted within those castle walls. Some might find the chill endearing, but it was a nuisance he was glad to be rid of.

            It wasn’t the lack of luxury that Petyr found irksome either – he was born without luxuries, after all. Born surrounded by the company of dreary rocks and endless fields of sheep shit. He definitely enjoyed the fine comforts that years of cunning and plotting have brought him. The ease with which money could be spent on acquiring fine wine and food and clothes.

            No – what the Lord Protector disliked most about the room (singular) was the lack of privacy. Or rather: the tendency for sound to travel.

            It had been much, much easier to keep the truth of their _lessons_ away from prying ears.

            Oh, but Petyr couldn’t deny the fear of being found out made it all the more _exciting_.

            A knock. “Come in,” Petyr called out, not bothering to look away from the missives he was preparing. So much work had already been done to secure his place amongst the families of the Vale, and so much more work was required. A never-ending process. Petyr sometimes found himself waking up to his fingers clutching the ghost of a quill in one hand and parchment in the other.

            Her feet left quiet steps, the door closing on oiled hinges behind her. 

            The scratching of the quill seemed a raucous thing in the silent expanse that slowly grew within the room. She would wait for him, as a _dutiful_ daughter would. She wouldn’t wait _patiently_ , however. Petyr could see her distorted reflection in the goblet that sat beside the inkwell. Her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her dress – a drab, brown thing that matched her hair (another drab, brown thing).

            Petyr couldn’t help but write the words slowly, to painstakingly etch out each letter with an unneeded amount of attention. The lords and ladies receiving them would pay no heed to the neatness. But the lady standing before him would. She had to have noticed the unusual care Petyr took now – her fingers dug harder into the fabric, twirling it round and round before finding invisible loose threads to pull at.

            It would be a lie should Petyr say he did not enjoy making his daughter _wait_. In impatience, in agony, most of all on the cusp of pleasure – all of it he relished.

            Satisfied, Petyr dusted the letter, cleaning the quill and stoppering the ink while he waited for the words to dry. There was still more to write, still more plans to set in motion and others to carefully guide towards the correct end. But even the Lord Protector grew impatient, especially with something far more enticing standing, waiting, just on the other side of his desk.

            He leaned back in his chair, wiping errant drops of ink off his fingers with a rag, admiring the girl that was his daughter.

            Alayne – oh, how pretty a name, in truth, but paling in comparison to how lovely _Sansa_ rolled off his tongue in two soft syllables. And a pity how easily sound traveled within the walls of the Gates, even if the Lord Protector was situated at the far end. Guests and servants filled the rooms and halls around them.

            Oh what a pity Petyr could not indulge in the taste of Sansa’s name tonight.

            “What brings my daughter to her father’s chambers at such an hour?” Petyr continued to work the rag around his fingers, scrubbing at stubborn splotches that seemed to walk onto impossible places on his hands.

            When he flicked a glance towards Sansa, Petyr saw how intently she was watching his movements. What he would give to read her thoughts, to _see_ the surely wicked things that played behind that beautiful face belying her innocence.

            “I’m glad to see my father has returned in one piece, and in good spirits.” She took a small step towards the desk, her skirts brushing against the wood. Sansa’s eyes skimmed the letters lying atop it. “How was the wedding?”

            “It was good. Jolly and full of wine and dancing. Though I must admit, none of the ladies I shared steps with were half as lovely as you.” He didn’t need to look up to see the blush spreading across her cheeks. But then he did, because the soft pink was always a beautiful sight. A reminder of all of the vibrancy Sansa once had – in the lazy waves of her hair, and the fine silks she used to don – now gone.  “Now, Alayne, tell me truthfully: what is it that brings you to my chambers? It is a late hour, now. Surely you must be tired after everything from the day?”

            Petyr tossed the ink-stained rag atop the desk (carefully avoiding the pile of missives he had just written – would be a waste to ruin all the hours of writing he had just done). He scooted the chair back a foot, the _screeeee_ of the legs echoing in the small chamber. An irritating sound, to be sure.

            But not an awful sound. The shrill cry of the chair was almost a _delight_ to hear, especially with the brown-haired girl in his room tonight. Because it was an instinct now, between the two of them – that Petyr hadn’t needed to command or offer anything of his daughter.

            Sansa stepped around his desk – short, quick strides, impatient perhaps, with almost a gay step to them – and lightly perched herself on his legs without so much as a word or motion from him.

            Petyr rested his hands on her hips – an instinct of his own.

            “I was wondering,” Sansa began, her words trailing off as she lifted her arms to his shoulders. Even through the thick doublet he still wore, Petyr could feel the burning press of her skin through the fabric. How hot, how scalding it would be were they skin to skin.

            She didn’t continue, only letting her fingers creep up over his shoulders and down, wrapping about his neck. Sansa scratched at the short hairs there, her nails leaving biting lines against his skin. Petyr rubbed circles into her hips with the pads of his thumbs, feeling the warmth of her body seep into his. And not just from her hands on him, or his hands on her – from her mouth, growing closer and closer towards his but never connecting. And from where she sat, straddling his legs, their aching desires just within reach.

            “Yes, sweetling?” Petyr urged. His fingers dug deeper, pressed into her with a _claiming_ desire no father should ever have for his daughter. Inches separated them, and he could see the darkness shadowing the endless oceans of her eyes. What a vile, wicked daughter of his! To press herself against him, to move her hips in time with his fingers, rocking back and forth. But Sansa was not alone in her depravity. How vile and wicked of him to feel the growing ache inside him, between them, at her actions. No father should ever delight in the growing hardness of his cock from his daughter.

            Thank the gods Petyr wasn’t her true father.

            “You were wondering…?” he continued. Petyr stopped his fingers, despite the clawing need that urged him to continue. The need that was whispering horrible ideas in his mind. To ruin the missives that sat, unwrinkled upon the desk – throw them aside and take his daughter then and there. How quickly the night would have passed should Petyr had Sansa to wile away the hours with instead of parchment.

            “I,” Sansa began, stopping her movements, too, though with considerably more difficulty. The budding feelings and emotions were so new, so _raw_ for someone as young as her. Petyr watched the black fogginess ease away from her eyes, watched as thought returned to combat desire. “I was wondering if my father might have been able to help me… But I’m sure he’s dreadfully tired after writing all those letters and would much prefer sleep.”

            He _had_ been dreadfully tired. Petyr could not deny the sleepiness that tugged at his eyelids during the last handful of letters. He had just scrapped a parchment and decided to turn in for the night. And then came the knock at the door. And the light steps, and the faint citrus scent that always lingered around her – and suddenly sleep was the furthest thing from Petyr’s mind.

            Petyr lifted a hand to brush at brown curls that crept over her shoulder. “I’m sure I could find some time to be as dutiful to my daughter as she has been to me these past months.”

            _And not for the first time_.

            Sansa tried (and failed) to hide the smile on her lips. She bit her tongue, trying to will the mirth away. “It’s about Harry.”

            And suddenly Petyr wasn’t as interested. But the wicked gleam to her eyes suggested this was definitely _not_ about Harry, not in the innocent way a daughter might ask her father as it should have been.

            “Yes? Is he to your liking?”

            Sansa glanced away, as unwanting to actually discuss the Hardyng boy as he was. “He’s… I’m sure in time we will grow to accept each other’s company, as a man and wife do.”

            “I’m sure you will.” _And I’m sure you won’t, not truly in the deepest reaches of your heart._ Petyr was a jealous thing.

            “But _father_ ,” she intoned, pressing her weight into him. “I was hoping you might teach me how best to ensnare him. What is it that boys think of at that age? What do they want, and how should I give it to them?”

            This was not even _remotely_ about Harrold.

            Their pretense of lessons was lost long ago in the cold clutches of the Eyrie. Still, Petyr entertained her feigned innocence.

            Of _course_ Sansa knew what Harrold would want. It was almost the same thing that Petyr wanted (now, and tomorrow, and every day after that). The only difference being that Petyr would enjoy the sweet taste of her, and the foolish boy would only dream of it. That Petyr would truly know how wonderful Sansa felt beneath fingers and tongue; how there was an underlying sweetness to her skin, always there, always lingering wherever tasted; and how sinful her cries were, especially when the only word she could speak in the midst of pleasure was his name.

            Petyr took a long, deep breath, calming his pounding heart. He set a smile to his lips, mirroring the wickedness lurking just beyond. “After all this time I’ve spent instructing my daughter, to now realize she’s learned none of it?” He _tsk_ ed. “I am disappointed, Alayne.”

            Sansa’s smile held no amount less of the dark desire that was in his. “I apologize, truly.” _Not truly – not even remotely_. Sansa licked her lips, a slow drag of her tongue. Petyr couldn’t help but stare. “Perhaps, if it isn’t too much trouble, my father might be able to _instruct_ me again? Tonight, maybe?”

            “It _is_ rather late…” Petyr made a show of looking out the slitted window, though nothing sat there but their reflection against the black glass.

            How could he refuse Sansa? Never, not in this lifetime or any other. Petyr knew even in the worst of universes, he could never deny Sansa anything. His mind, his heart, his very soul. She could ask for his very _life_ , for the final breath of Petyr Baelish to be taken by his own hand.

            And he would give it to her. Gladly.

            Petyr dragged his gaze back to his daughter, and Sansa seemed to have moved closer towards him. He could feel the impossibly few inches that separated his throbbing hardness with her own aching core. “I suppose I could. There should be some time for a short lesson? Though I do believe a certain _punishment_ is in order for your forgetfulness.”

            There was the briefest moment of fear crossing Sansa’s eyes – fear at what _true_ punishment was under the hand of a mad king, now dead – and Petyr berated himself for causing those memories to flood back. He almost spoke apologies when the darkness of fear evaporated into the darkness of desire.

            She licked her lips again. “If that’s what my father wishes…”

            _So much more_.

            Petyr disentangled her arms from his neck, kissing the back of each hand before setting them in her lap. Her fingers were so close to his cock, and he had a feeling she was teasing him just as much by not acknowledging the closeness.

            One by one, Petyr wriggled the rings from his fingers. He started with his right hand, from pinky to index, setting each ring carefully on the desk behind Sansa. There was a chance the rings would clatter to the floor or roll beneath furniture long before the _lesson_ was over. No matter – there was plenty of jewelry in Westeros to replace whatever was lost tonight.

            One ring in particular he pocketed. Petyr slipped it from his left hand, raising it in the small gap between them. A silver band with a single ruby and sapphire set beside one another. The jewels caught in the flickering candlelight.

            Sansa’s smiles caught the light, too. It shone brighter than any jewel.

            Wherever Petyr went, so did Sansa. Not Alayne, not the muddied falsity of her – but the true beauty hidden underneath.

            “Alayne,” he said after the final ring was removed, tapping his naked fingers against her wrists. “Lift your skirts and bend over my knee.”

            Another momentary flash of unease that Petyr willed away with his eyes and lips and soft caresses of his fingers. _I promise_ , he was trying to say with each swipe of thumb against her pulsing wrist. _I promise I promise I promise_.

            Sansa lifted herself from him – the loss of warmth was unwelcome. But whatever warmth was gone from contact was immediately gained at the sight of her hands inching the brown dress up and up her legs. The smooth whiteness of her skin was in stark contrast with the rough fabric, and Petyr could not wait for the years to pass when finally he could dress Sansa in the finest silks and jewels that were befitting her.

            Up and up she collected her skirts. Goose pimples crept along her legs, both the fabric and the cold moving in a slow, tantalizing torment upwards. Petyr could not remove his eyes from the hem of skirts, no matter how hard he tried (which he didn’t).

            Sansa paused just where her smallclothes would be. Petyr glanced up at her to see the edges of her lips curled in such a dark delight. Up her hands flew the last few inches, and –

            She wore nothing beneath her skirts.

            Petyr’s smile was as wicked as hers.

            “Oh, _Sansa_ ,” he breathed. There was so much to be said – how beautiful she was, how unladylike, how wicked. Words stumbled in his mouth, thoughts crashed and collided inside his mind.

            All he could do was watch as Sansa draped her skirts and herself across his legs. Watched as she turned her head to smile at him with the softest, most innocent smile, that even Petyr had a moment’s doubt of the true depravity hidden beneath porcelain skin.

            His cock twitched.

            Petyr’s heart thundered in his chest. So many beats passed before Petyr whispered, “Beautiful,” and leaned forward. His right hand smoothed over the flawless skin of her ass and thighs, relishing the slight shivers that the contact sent through Sansa. Petyr ran his other hand across Sansa’s back, down into the wild curls hanging freely. He curled his fingers in the mousy brown – a grip that was meant to calm as much as it was to claim.

            It was several heartbeats later when Petyr found his voice. “Relax, sweetling.” He ran his fingertips around the inside of her thighs, threateningly close towards her core. So close he could feel her arousal, could smell it lingering in the space between them. He wanted to taste her. “Relax into my hand, and it will feel much better.”

            Petyr ran his palm against her ass, warming the already-warm skin. He didn’t want to hurt her – far from it. The pain would be desired, an antithesis to the pleasure his fingers would bring her. The night was still young, after all.

            He could feel her relaxing into him, could feel her almost forget why she was bent across his legs.

            _Smack_.

            Sansa jolted against his restraint in her hair, her cry ringing out into the room. Petyr felt her body tense beneath his hand. “Relax, sweetling,” he repeated, rubbing the growing redness. “And if you can, please be as quiet as possible.”

            It took a while, but when Sansa did relax back into him – not quite the same softness as before – Petyr slapped his hand again on the other cheek. It left stinging pricks against his palm.

            Sansa stifled her cry. Petyr crept his hand between her thighs, lightly rubbing across the wet folds. The tension in her body lessened as the pain mixed with the pleasure. The choked cry grew into soft moans, her hips digging into his leg, rubbing in in time with the strokes –

            _Smack_.

            How conflicted her cry was now. How torn Sansa was between the burning red stinging her skin, and the short thrusts of his fingers against her, inside her.

            Petyr alternated – between striking ass or thigh – and between causing pain and pleasure. With every new strike that sent the porcelain into an angry flush, Sansa’s cries grew less and less painful and more and more wanting. She wanted this, this pain, this lust – Sansa couldn’t articulate the strange desire coursing through her. Petyr was sure she had never _wanted_ to be punished.

            Petyr was sure (or hoped, at least) that Sansa would come to want to be punished. Again, and again, and only ever by his hand.

            Her skin was as red as her hair had once been, redder perhaps. Petyr thrust his fingers into her core, one finger and then two, a quick rhythm matching her pleading cries for _more_ and _oh gods_.

            When he felt her walls closing around his fingers, he moved faster, faster, urging Sansa on into the beautiful pleasure that only he could give her. That only he would be able to give her.

            _Petyr_.

            His name was so beautiful when coming from her lips.

            Petyr lifted her from his legs, letting Sansa rest against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her flushed body, felt as she heaved hot breaths against his doublet.

            Finally, when Sansa’s breaths grew slow and steady, and when Petyr couldn’t feel her heart as a thundering drum mimicking his, he lifted her head away to look into her eyes.

            There wasn’t fear there, but contentment. Petyr kissed her lips, soft, so unlike the pain that he inflicted on her.

            Petyr ran fingers through her hair, smoothing out and gentling where he had gripped her before. Her skin was still sensitive – she winced whenever he trailed over the base of her scalp.

            Slowly they dragged their lips apart.

            “Alayne,” he said, leaning in to leave another soft press of lips. “Is there anything else you require of your father tonight?”

            Sansa raked her own hands through his hair, and not without scraping her nails into his scalp. It hurt, but it sent tendrils of fire into his veins.

            She tilted her head, her eyes staring deep into his. “Thank you, father. That was _very_ instructive.” Sansa grabbed his hair and pulled his head back, her mouth pressing just below his jaw. Her lips and tongue were soft and warm against his skin, but her teeth were not.

            “I think I still have a few questions,” she said in between biting kisses along his jaw.

            Petyr smiled, feeling the fire burn with a newfound desire. “How can I help?”

            Sansa took her time traveling across his skin, finally returning to press a demanding kiss. Her tongue urged his lips apart, and they tasted every inch of each other’s mouths until they broke apart, gasping for air.

            He tasted her on her breaths.

            “You’ve taught me how the woman can find happiness, but what about the man?”

            Petyr trailed his fingers across her exposed thighs, running beneath the disheveled skirts to cup her ass. She winced beneath his touch. “I do believe I’ve taught you that lesson, Alayne. Multiple times, if I’m not mistaken.”

            Her fingers trailed through his hair still. She smirked, the wickedness not at all hidden. “I’ve forgotten.”

            He pinched her thigh. Sansa laughed into his mouth.

            Dawn came by much sooner than they had expected. And at some point during the night, Petyr heard the clacking of his rings fall to the floor. He lost a silver and black one, which was a pity. But it was replaceable. The sapphire and ruby, on the other hand, was not. It was still there, safe – when he put it back on, it looked almost as radiant as the girl spread out beneath him.

            Dawn had come, yes. But unlike the sun, both of them had come more than once.

**Author's Note:**

> [Well. So much for a quick 500 word thing... (Sorry for leaving it off there lol - I only stopped because I really needed to get to bed).  
> I was going to save some of this for another fic, but oh well. I hope you liked it!! Nothing like a fine cup of sin to start off the weekend, right? ;) ]


End file.
